


flicking through the pages i've written in my memory

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:39:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which louis tomlinson has a near death experience with a certain little brown journal and harry styles has a thing for the boy with the cerulean blue eyes. they meet in ways they do not expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flicking through the pages i've written in my memory

**Author's Note:**

> so this fic (which took me an unreasonable amount of time) is 110% percent dedicated to amina williams. i've been most excited to write this note because i want her to know that she inspires me every day and her support with my writing is what lead to this fic. she has done so much for me since we met--and every day i feel thankful to have someone like her in my life. so thank you amina for being the harry to my louis, the beales to my alexis and of course--for being my blue arrow.

Louis Tomlinson is bitterly sad.

 

He’s been chasing dreams with no concrete goal for twenty-one years, and he hasn’t ended up anywhere. Everything that could go wrong for him has gone wrong—and even when Louis thinks _this can’t get any worse_ irony likes to fuck with him some more and deal him another hand of shitty luck.

 

So yeah, that’s about it. Louis is twenty-one, alone, and _sad._

He doesn’t have much self-worth anymore, or any reasons to feel excited about _living._ It’s pathetic, really, to be twenty-one years old and wallowing in the sort of self-pity that angsty teenagers do, but Louis feels like he has the right and he really doesn’t give two shits about what’s acceptable anyway.

 

He’s always had that _I don’t give a fuck_ mentality. Zayn tells him that all the time.

 

It’s the mentality that’s gotten him in trouble in school, at work, and with his parents. But it’s also the mentality that helps him put up with nearly everything in his life and Louis thinks it works pretty well because it stops him from reading into things and creating more problems.

 

And yeah—Zayn loves that about him and maybe Louis takes that to heart.

 

Louis takes everything Zayn says to heart, really, because Zayn is his everything.

 

He’s been his friend for ten long years, and although they have a crazy, love-hate relationship, Louis thinks he loves him more than he loves his own family. Zayn’s supported him through everything he’s ever done—from Louis’ admission that he was gay all the way to his choice to move to London in hopes of starting a new life. Zayn even dropped everything to follow Louis to London and though he acts like it wasn’t a big deal, Louis knows it was hard for him to change universities last minute and leave behind his family.

 

And Zayn—Zayn loves Louis more than Louis loves himself.

 

He sees all the great in Louis that Louis can’t see. He sees the bright spots of hope shining through all of Louis’ misfortunes, he sees potential in his failures, and he sees new horizons blooming from old mistakes. Louis is the type of person who deserves everything but doesn’t get anything—and Zayn thinks it’s so utterly unfair. Sure, Louis is rough around the edges and cracked at the foundation, but _shit_ if Zayn doesn’t love him to death.

 

He wants to help Louis, he really does. He wants to help Louis find a _reason._

 

Zayn is convinced that Louis is missing one key piece to his puzzle—the piece that will make it all come together. He knows Louis has the potential to be so much more— _he just needs to find something to push him to be more._  

 

In other words, Louis needs a purpose.

 

And late one December evening, Louis Tomlinson finds his purpose in the most unexpected way.

 

*

 

Louis doesn’t remember much about finding the journal, except maybe that he nearly broke his neck tripping on it.

 

He’s drunk and in a shitty mood and Louis just really wants to go home. The party that Louis had been at is awful—the food is shit, the people are fake, and the drinks are mediocre—and Louis is aching to be back on the sofa with Zayn.

 

Louis sneaks out of the back door so people don’t ask him any questions. He really just isn’t in the mood.

 

And he is just about to make a clean break out to the main road—when the journal decided to ruin it.

 

Louis blames it one-hundred percent on the stupid person who threw it right outside of the club’s back door. Someone as inebriated and pissed off as he was would _not_ be looking for walking hazards such as the stupid little book—so then who in their right mind would leave it there?

 

So yeah, Louis trips over the journal and lands flat on his face. The loud crack that follows is the sort that makes you wince.

 

Louis’ nose is a bleeding mess and the pain is unbearable—he’s listing curse words he didn’t even know existed—and the alcohol is _not_ helping calm him. His messenger bag that he carries everywhere spilled in the process, leaving Louis’ possessions in the muddy alleyway and Louis is just so pissed off at everything he could cry.

 

Blood is dripping onto the concrete, staining it a dark red. It’s getting all over Louis’ front too—he can taste the thick, metallically stuff and it makes him want to be sick. Louis has to hold the bridge of his throbbing nose so he doesn’t choke on his own damn blood as he crawls over to his phone, lying three feet away where it fell.

 

And now he’s dialing Zayn’s number in humiliation, all the while trying to stem the flow of blood pouring out his nose. Louis faintly thinks he might’ve broken it.

 

“Louis?” Zayn says tiredly. “Why the hell are you calling me?”

 

“You gotta pick me up,” he says thickly. His words barely sound like English—the alcohol and cloying blood do not help his coherency. “’M injured—blood everywhere—“

 

“You’re drunk as hell,” Zayn sighs. “And I can barely understand you. Text me the address, and just know you’re gonna pay hell for this.”

 

He hangs up on Louis, and Louis is left in the dark alleyway, trying to type out the address of the seedy club. It’s hard when there’s blood dripping on the screen and his mind is so muddled he can’t think and it takes Louis a painfully long time.

 

But eventually it’s done and he’s lying on his back, looking at the starless charcoal canvas of a sky and trying not to choke on his own blood. He has his nose pinched though—he saw that in a film before—and it helps stem the flow a bit. At least he isn’t gagging anymore.

 

And Louis is just _mad—_ this whole night has been a grand bust, and he just wants it to end. He’s mad at everything that he can think of, he’s so tired his limbs feel like lead, and he’s in so much pain he wants to cry—but _no,_ Louis doesn’t cry. Especially when a stupid _book_ put him in this mess.

 

That thought triggers Louis’ anger again, and then he’s streaming all the curse words he ever learned towards the sky. He briefly thinks how ridiculous he probably looks—lying in a puddle of filth, blood staining his clothes like he got mugged, and his stuff scattered around the alleyway. Louis has to fight the unexplainable urge to laugh, even though there’s nothing remotely funny about the situation.

 

Still. He’s drunk and he isn’t thinking right and Louis just feels like laughing at his shitty luck.

 

Zayn pulls into the alleyway about twenty minutes later, looking just as pissed off as Louis feels. He turns off the engine and stares at Louis from inside the car, this disbelieving look on his face that says _why he is my friend?_

Louis gives him a bloody smile and a thumbs up.

 

“You’re possibly the biggest idiot I have ever met,” Zayn says, opening the car door and stepping out. He leans down to pick up Louis’ messenger bag and begins collecting all the things that fell out of it. “How in the hell did you end up back here looking like you’ve been shot?”

 

“Fell over a little book,” Louis giggles. “Look Zayn—my nose is bleeding. D’you think I broke it?”

 

“I think you’re stupid as hell,” Zayn mutters, zipping up the bag and putting it onto his shoulder. He leans down and hoists Louis up with one strong arm. Louis is really unsteady on his feet; he tips sideways into Zayn’s shoulder and smears his white shirt with blood.

 

Zayn closes his eyes and briefly wonders how illegal it would be to kill Louis right now.

 

He half-drags a semi-conscious Louis to the car, and leans him against the hood. Zayn pulls his ruined shirt off his body and gives it to Louis in disgust.

 

“Oooh Zayn, I didn’t think it was that kind of party,” Louis giggles again, poking at Zayn’s exposed chest. “Should I strip down too?”

 

“Honestly, shut the hell up and use the shirt to absorb the blood,” Zayn shakes his head and gets into the driver’s side.  “I don’t want it to look like a fuckin’ crime scene in my car.”

 

Louis does as he’s told and climbs into the passenger seat of the car, banging his head against the glass of the window in the process. He blinks and sees stars.

 

“You’re going to kill yourself before I get the chance,” Zayn grumbles, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the alleyway. “Don’t deny me the pleasure, mate.”

 

Louis rolls his head on his shoulders and begins tapping his fingers on the window. Zayn exhales deeply, trying to keep his calm.

 

“In the morning, you better have a good reason for this.”

 

*

 

Louis wakes up feeling like he’s been murdered and resurrected three times over.

 

The first thing he notices is the swelling of his face—it makes it hard to breathe. His fingers probe the swelling without any gentleness—and suddenly he’s squealing in pain and jerking his hand back.

 

“Morning sunshine,” a voice says smugly from across the room. “You’re looking lovely today.”

 

Louis lifts his head off the sofa a fraction of an inch and blinks up blearily. Zayn’s face swims into focus.

 

“I feel… like… _shit,”_ Louis says slowly because his tongue is thick and heavy and just doesn’t want to form words. It doesn’t help that his mouth is horribly dry.

 

Louis has a pulsing headache and he’s feeling so groggy he can hardly remember where he is. All he really knows is that he’s done something _very_ stupid and Zayn’s looking entirely too gleeful about the whole thing.

 

“You called me at two in the morning and made me pick you up, Louis,” he says, leaning in close to Louis’ face. “And this is your payback.”

 

He withdrawals and laughs manically like this is the funniest thing ever, but Louis can honestly see zero humor in this whole situation. He can’t fuckin’ remember what happened—he definitely doesn’t remember calling Zayn—and it’s driving him crazy. Plus Zayn thinks this is all _laughable._

Louis thinks he needs some Yorkshire tea and a shower.

 

“Did I get in a fight or something?” he murmurs, propping himself on the sofa. His face is cracked and hard with dried blood— _where in the hell did that come from—?_

“No, your dumb ass fell,” Zayn rolls his eyes again. “It would sound much nobler that way though, wouldn’t it? But the ever-classy Louis Tomlinson got shitfaced and face planted onto the cement.”

 

“Funny,” Louis mutters. “Hilarious.”

 

Louis pushes himself off the sofa and tries to stand up—but his body protests immediately. Black dots swarm in and obscure his vision, his head pulses so violently Louis yelps in pain, and his hands and feet start tingling. He sways dangerously for a minute or so.

 

But then Zayn’s hand is on his shoulder, making sure he doesn’t fall—and Louis wants to make some sarcastic remark about Zayn laughing at him thirty seconds ago, and then rushing over to help him—but Louis is just way too hungover for any sort of wit. He feels like a mud puddle.

 

And he certainly smells like one—there’s blood all over his face and hands, his pants are stained with dirt and remnants of a nasty alleyway, and he reeks of alcohol. Louis feels as grimy as he looks.

 

He shakes off Zayn’s hand and stumbles towards the shower slowly. Louis is pretty proud of himself; he only trips twice, and doesn’t fall at all. With the spinning head he’s got, it’s a miracle and a half that he ends up with a pair of clean clothes on the vanity, and his old ones in a pile at his feet.

 

Louis turns on the shower and waits for it to heat up. Meanwhile, he peers into the mirror at his face—and he’s shocked at what he sees.

 

It looks like his face has been painted red—dried blood is _everywhere._ And his nose— _holy shit—_ his nose is swollen and tinged an alarming crimson. And the developing bruise doesn’t stop there—it spans out underneath his left eye and cheekbone. Louis brings his fingers up to the swelling and touches it gingerly, trying not to wince.

 

He definitely did some stupid shit last night.

 

Problem is, he doesn’t know _what_ it was.

 *

 Once Louis is out of the shower and changed into clean clothes, he feels remarkably better.

 

Louis makes himself a cup of tea (two splashes of milk with a two cubes of sugar) and gets some ice for his face before he joins Zayn in the living room again.

 

Zayn is lounged on the sofa watching some sort of cartoon, looking exhausted but annoyingly handsome. It’s irritating to Louis—how Zayn could go through what he did last night and still look like a fuckin’ model while Louis looks like he’s been brought back from the dead thirty-six times.

 

“I’m leaving soon,” Zayn says as soon as Louis sits down. “I’ve got work.”

 

“All right,” Louis sighs, holding the ice-pack to the bridge of his nose. He grimaces in pain. “When is Perrie coming over tonight?”

 

Perrie is Zayn’s girlfriend, and she visits them quite frequently when she has time. Zayn always makes a big deal about the flat being cleaned and some sort of meal being ready if he’s not home in time to cook. Louis would complain about the extra work her visits entail, but he likes Perrie and Zayn pays for the flat he lives in, so he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“I’ll have her text you,” he yawns, standing up and stretching. “Meanwhile… take care of that nose. You look like Rudolph the red nose reindeer with a bad hairdo.”

                                                                                                                          

“Actually fuck you,” Louis grumbles, giving him a special finger. “I hate you.”

 

Zayn leans down and presses a kiss to Louis’ fringe and Louis tries to escape him, but Zayn’s too quick and he isn’t hungover like Louis is. He lands one right on Louis’ forehead.

 

“Love you bubs,” Zayn coos, tickling him under his chin. Louis swats his hand away.

 

“What happened to you making fun of me?” he asks irritably. “I think I liked that better.”

 

“You’ve gotten the punishment you deserve,” Zayn says loftily, slipping on his coat and trainers. “You should’ve seen your face this morning. Might’ve been funniest thing about this whole situation.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes and then Zayn is waving goodbye to him and he’s left in utter quiet.

 

He mutes the tv and lays back down on the sofa, determined to go back to sleep. Louis feels like shit and the only cure for it at this point is to sleep it off—which Louis _would_ do, but his phone is ringing and _wow he’s mad._

So Louis grumbles and throws the duvet off himself and crawls to his messenger bag. He has to rifle through papers and books to find his phone buried at the bottom of his bag but he does and he’s hitting the answer button.

 

“Hello?” he grumbles, rubbing his eyes. There’s some shuffling on the other side and then a laugh and then the call hangs up.

 

Louis knows before he looks at the caller ID that it was Zayn. Zayn, who probably thinks he’s being _funny._

 

He rolls his eyes and he turns around to go back to the sofa when he spots a little brown book near his feet—the same little brown book that he remembers tripping on last night—

 

Louis stoops down and picks it up, slightly curious. It’s tattered and a bit soggy from being outside in London, but it’s intact and fairly new-looking. There are doodles all over the cover, along with a few quotes that Louis has to squint to read and some initials that are barely legible.

 

_Property of h.s._

 

And now Louis feels very weird—he’s holding someone’s _journal_ for god’s sakes. This isn’t something that he should be reading, but since when has Louis ever given a shit, to be honest? Louis’ curiosity has a hold of him and he opens to first page anyway despite every fiber of his being telling him not to.

 

_For all the things too beautiful to forget and too special to let go._

Underneath that line are four dashes, three of which have a name. The first says “Gemma” and the next says “Mum” and the third one says “Niall” and there’s a blank one waiting to be filled in. Louis rolls his eyes—this guy (Louis assumes it’s a guy because he’s never seen any girl with handwriting like this) is a massive sap and Louis thinks it’s a bit weird.

 

Louis is about to open the first page of the journal when his phone vibrates again.

 

He pulls it out and sees a message from Zayn and despite his annoyance, he opens it up. Zayn’s sent him a picture—more specially, a picture of his face this morning when he was still asleep on the sofa. Louis looks god awful and nasty as hell.

 

Underneath the picture, Zayn’s texted him:

 

_profile pik ?_

Louis types out a well-worded insult and throws his phone on the table, annoyed (but not really) with Zayn and picks up the little journal.

 

His curiosity is resparked as he flicks through the pages this boy has written in his memory. It’s only about half-full, but Louis is overly intrigued and he wants to read it. See, Louis was never really big into books and such, but this one poses a bit more interest for him, considering that he almost broke his neck on it, and that it’s full of _personal_ thoughts.

 

Louis curls on the sofa with the book in hand and begins reading:

 

_Hiii._

_So this is it… I’m moving out to London tomorrow to start my career. Mum’s okay with me taking a year off of university—we talked for a while, and there were a lot of tears and such, but she understands how badly I want this. It was all quite emotional—whenever mum starts crying, I can’t help myself. She told me she was proud of whatever I choose to do, and that she’d support me all the way, no matter what. I know I’m lucky to have a mum like her; Gems said some of her classmates have parents that force them into school for things they don’t want to do. Added with the fact that she’s giving me this massive sum of money to get started, I think I’ve got one of the best mums out there._

Louis rolls his eyes again because— _holy shit,_ this guy is such mum’s boy. But he can’t deny he’s not intrigued—there’s a certain dirty thrill he feels as he reads these handwritten sentences. Like he’s sitting in the mind of this unknown stranger and he can see all of their thoughts—but they can’t see him.

 

_Anyway, I’m nervous of letting people down. If this doesn’t work, then what will I have? I don’t want to have to deal with that crushing feeling of failure—it would destroy me. So yeah, while this is a big trip that holds big risks, there are so many ways that it could wrong and they’re going to kill me the whole time. Being a singer is always a huge toss-up—and I never thought I’d be the one to take that chance._

_love, h._

*

_Hiii._

_I haven’t had time to write since I moved in three days ago. It took a lot more effort than I thought, but my new roommate Niall helped out a lot. He’s a nice fellow—always laughing and always happy, which is infectious. It’s hard for anyone to keep a straight face when Niall laughs._

_He’s great, really, with his baby blue eyes and dyed-blonde hair. Lots of boyish appeal there—but still, not my type. It wouldn’t matter if he was—I’m almost sure Niall doesn’t swing that way. He pulled out a poster of some American model and talked for a good five minutes on how great her boobs were—though to me, they didn’t look like anything desirable. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, I guess._

Louis feels some sort of personal connection with the writer of this diary— _it sounds like’s not straight either._ It’s always hard to find someone who understands the struggle of sexuality like another gay person does, but yeah, Louis gets it and he feels this thing in his chest kind of like empathy.

 

_Niall plays guitar—I found that out right away. He’s actually quite good. He can play nearly every song that I know how to sing—which is impressive, considering I know loads of songs._

_I told him that I’m pursing my music career after he played for me, and he smiled so wide I thought his face might split. He told me he’d come to gigs to play guitar if I really wanted, and I told him I’d think about it—but Niall does have a good sound, and I think we’d sound good together. Still, we’d have to have a session together._

_Niall’s invited me out for drinks at the pub tonight, and even though I’m not a big drinker, I think I’d be fun to go live a little. Mum would absolutely kill me if she knew I spent my first days in London with a hangover, but I want to try the city a bit, and the only way I can become part of London is to party in London. That’s what Niall told me, at least._

_I thought it sounded pretty cool._

_Anyway, Niall’s due back here any minute, so I should go off and get ready for tonight. It’ll be fun—I haven’t had a proper good time in a while, and I’m feeling like it’ll be a fantastic night to be eighteen and legal in London._

_lots of love, h._

Attached to this page is a picture—Louis pulls it off gently and examines it.

 

It’s a blonde boy with bright, smiling eyes—presumably Niall—on the top bunk of a shared set of beds. There’s a guitar on his lap, and sheet music scattered around his pillow. He’s grinning down at the camera, his cheeks flushed and plump. Louis agrees with this person—Niall does have a certain boyish charm that makes him alluring.

 

He stares at the picture for a little while, trying to imagine the scene it was taken from. It’s so strange; being able to see an image, but being unable to recreate it. There are a hundred thousand things Louis will never know about this picture or the people inside it, and it kind of drives him crazy.

 

Louis skips the next few entries because they basically are the same things—talking about Niall and gigs and London. Although Louis is still curious about this guy, his attention span is only so long, and he’ll get bored within ten minutes if he doesn’t get to some juicy parts.

 

Louis is hoping for some sizzling action here, and so far he’s been a bit let down.

 

_Hiiii._

_Good news! I’ve landed a job at the 17black café today as a pastry chef—I’m not really that good at baking, but they were in dire need and they hired me on the spot. I told Liam—the boy who was posting the “help wanted” signs--that I’d worked in a bakery back in Cheshire, and he about begged me to take the job in the café. I couldn’t really say no, considering I really need money at this point._

_He brought me in to meet Amina, the owner of the shop, and she agreed that I’d be a good choice._

_I asked them if I could maybe play gigs at the shop on my off days or something, and they agreed so readily I almost got emotional right there. After hearing my voice, they were only that much more excited, and I swear I felt like I was floating._

_So yeah. I have a gig and a job within the first two weeks of my move._

_I’d say I’ve been doing pretty good, eh?_

_Niall is so happy for me; he kept giving me these massive hugs like I’d struck the lottery. It’s hard not to be happy for yourself when you’ve got someone who constantly gives you a reason to be. I think I’m going to really, really like Niall._

_They always say that the Irish are loveable anyway. All that national pride and such (which isn’t a stereotype; Niall has an Irish flag hanging beside his bed.)_

_love, h._

And now Louis is completely struck off guard because _holy shit—he knows this guy!_

The 17Black café is his choice morning tea place. He goes every morning--and sometimes in the evening, if he’s feeling up to it—to get his cuppa and his daily discussion with Amina. Louis hasn’t really paid much attention to the other people that work in the shop, but he knows there’s a Harry Styles who works in the back and performs during the night rush. Louis has heard him in person—he’s quite good and _extraordinarily handsome._

 

They’ve caught each other’s eyes a few times—mostly Louis would look up just to find those green eyes locked on him. Of course, Harry would avert his gaze nervously, and Louis wouldn’t think anything of it because really, it’s not a big deal.

 

Louis knows Harry is younger than him—late teens or something. He’s all lanky limbs, awkward adolescence, and messy curls. He has these sparkling jade eyes that are unfairly pretty, and sinfully plump lips that leave no room for imagination. Yes, he’s quite handsome, and yes, Louis knows him, but _no,_ he did _not_ expect to learn about him through his journal.

 

On one hand, it seems so wrong to be reading Harry’s thoughts because now that Louis can picture the face behind these sentences, it makes him feel a bit dirty. He knows he would literally kill any person that did what he’s doing now—if he kept a journal, of course. But Louis isn’t like most people and most people aren’t Louis and he’s just _really curious._

For example, Louis wouldn’t have guessed that Harry was _gay._ He always thought that yeah, maybe he was a bit feminine, but all pretty boys have a hint of femininity that they can’t help. The curls didn’t really help either.

 

Somewhere underneath Louis’ twisted morals, he knows he shouldn’t be reading this— _but as usual_ —he ignores his conscious and turns to the next page.

 

He briefly wonders how this journal ended up outside a seedy London club.

 

_Hiii._

_The party with Niall and his mates was unreal. You can say a lot about him and his friends, but you can’t doubt their drinking ability—they drank twice as much as I did, and were much more sober. I don’t remember half the party to be honest—it was all one blur—but I think I had one of the best times I’ve ever had._

_London parties are legit man—they don’t mess around when they say they’re going to have a good time._

_I had a pounding hangover going into the first day of work, but I think I got through it pretty well. Liam and I had a good time together—we’re the type of people who naturally get along. And Amina is the coolest boss I’ve ever had—she’s more like a friend than an employer._

_We had a fun lunch break together in which I made them all homemade cookies and sang for them. They laughed and sang along and complimented my cookies and my voice and it was just great in a lot of different ways._

_I’m happier in London than I ever was in Holmes Chapel and finally—after nineteen years—I feel like I’ve made a right choice._

_love, h._

*

_Hii._

_There are many reasons to be happy lately, like Niall and my singing and my new friends._

_And then there’s my job._

_I love it here. It’s so nice and cozy and I really, really like Liam. We hide behind the cash register while Amina makes her rounds for the day and analyze our cliental. It’s really fun—we try to make up stories about them based on what they order, where they sit, and how they dress. So far, we’ve made up three:_

_There’s this girl who comes in nearly every day—she has these pretty chestnut locks and clear, hazel eyes. Her skin is smooth and rosy, like a child’s, and she has a bottomless wardrobe of expensive clothes. Liam and I think she’d be a Sarah or something like that._

_She’s obviously rich—maybe her dad owns a big company or something. Sarah’s surprisingly quiet and equally modest as well—she orders very politely. Clearly she’s been brought up well._

_The next one is an older lady—maybe late twenties—with the most eccentric taste that we’ve ever seen. She’s cool though—like the type of person all the kids secretly envy. She has long blonde hair and even longer legs that she knows how to use, her lips are plump and always painted with some sort of lipstick, and her clear blue eyes are pretty. I think she’d be quite the person to get to know._

_She has a baby girl—I saw her lockscreen when I was cleaning up her table once. Her daughter looks just like her too, and it’s kind of cute._

_The final person is a guy around my age and he has to be my favorite._

_He is utterly beautiful, really—he has the prettiest pair of cerulean eyes that I’ve ever seen. He’s kind of small for his age—his hands are half the size of mine—but I really like that about him. His facial structure is also out of this world—he has cheekbones that are begging for kisses and a jaw line so well-chiseled it looks like a statue. And his hair—he always wears it under a beanie with just his fringe peeking out._

_He always orders the same thing—Yorkshire tea with two sugar cubes._

 

And now Louis is blinking at the words with a swooping feeling in his stomach.

 

  _He_ orders Yorkshire tea every day with two sugar cubes. _He_ always wears a beanie into the café, _he_ has cerulean eyes, and _he_ has ridiculously prominent cheekbones and _he_ has tiny hands.

 

This is all happening too fast and he can’t process it. Louis rereads the section and drops down to the next one.

 

_Liam and I have nicknamed him William because he seems very proper and such. Liam’s the one who came up with the name, and I think it fits him well. William with the sinfully pretty bone structure and the extraordinary blue eyes and the cute, piping Doncaster accent. William who likes tea more than he likes people, and who has an usual fascination with jumpers and beanies._

And now Louis is staring at the last few lines because _no, this must be a joke---_

_His_ middle name is William.

Louis closes the book slowly and runs a hand over the stubble on his jawline. He’s way too hungover for this sort of mind-tripping; it’s playing games with his mind.

 

Louis can honestly say he’s had a lot of bad experiences with irony, but this one tops the list as the most extreme by a mile. This kind of shit is what you see in badly made films about cheesy lovers reconnecting though a lost diary or sumant—and Louis _hates_ that kind of thing.

 

Yeah, Louis asked for sizzling action, but _no,_ Louis did not ask for this.

 

*

 

The next morning finds Louis in his usual table at the 17Black café.

 

It’s a bright lovely morning, and the sun bounces around the merry walls of the shop. Its bright rays illuminate the clean glass tables and set fire to the classy-looking pastries in the pastry window. Louis wonders briefly if Harry decorated them, because they really are lovely.

 

Louis is basking in this sunlight like a content cat; he bends his head back and allows the warmth to wash over his face. It feels _wonderful—_ Louis wants to purr in pleasure (not literally) because this surely must be what heaven feels like—

 

“What in the world happened to your face?”

 

Louis jerks forward and nearly knocks his full teacup over. He’s about to let out a string of curses—that’s his natural reaction to everything—when Amina’s face swims into view. Louis swallows the words on his lips and shakes his head.

 

“Lovely greeting,” Louis grumbles, but he still gives her this big long hug when she gets close enough. He isn’t much of a touchy-feely kind of person, but Amina’s the exception—she’s the exception for everything, really.

 

“You look handsome as ever,” Amina says, patting his uninjured cheek. “Just a little more… _blue.”_

 

“Yeah, well, I fell on my face when I was drunk two nights ago,” Louis says bluntly. “I tripped over a stupid little journal.”

 

Amina considers him for a second with this ‘ _who really is Louis Tomlinson’_ look and then she’s laughing. She’s laughing so loudly and so hard that Louis can’t help but laugh with her and now they’re both laughing so loudly that they’re creating a ruckus—

 

A head of curls pops out from behind the kitchen wall. Louis looks up for just a millisecond—just enough time for the green eyes to meet his own and grow wide in surprise—

 

The laughter fades from Louis’ lips as the boy darts back behind the kitchen and he’s praying this will all blow over—Louis isn’t good at hiding his embarrassment—but no, Amina follows the direction of his gaze and sees the last of Harry’s curls darting back into the kitchen.

 

“Harry!” she yells, beckoning for him to come over to the table. “Why are you being so shy? You’ve never met Louis, have you?”

 

And then Harry is reluctantly slouching out of the kitchen, his eyes fixed on the ground. Louis can practically taste his mortification and he really just feels bad for this whole thing happening.

 

 

But Harry looks adorable—he’s dressed in this little chef’s hat that sits crooked atop his curls. His cheeks have traces of flour on them, and the apron he wears around his waist says “Kiss me, I’m a chef.” Louis wishes he’d be a little less shy though; Louis doesn’t want to make this any more uncomfortable than it has to be.

 

Louis briefly thinks of what Harry would do if he knew Louis had read his journal.

 

“Harry, meet Louis,” Amina says happily. “I can’t believe I haven’t introduced you before, that’s my fault really—“

 

“Pleasure,” Louis smiles warmly, holding out his hand. Harry raises his eyes for a fraction of a second and his frozen jade eyes meet Louis’ cerulean ones in boyish hope. Louis wants to laugh at Harry’s awkwardness, but he thinks that would be severely unfair.

 

They shake hands and Louis discovers that Harry has monster-sized hands. His engulf Louis’ in their massive warmth—which Louis doesn’t really mind; he has perpetually cold hands and it feels nice.

 

“You’ve got a little bit of flour there, love,” Louis says brightly, damping his thumb with his tongue and reaching forward to get the bit of flour off Harry’s cheekbone. At first, Harry flinches from Louis’ touch, but he doesn’t pull back. Louis lets his thumb rest on the warm skin for a beat longer than he should, and then he drops it with a satisfied smile. Harry’s practically burning red—a fact that no one in the shop fails to notice.

 

Louis knows it’s cruel to play these mind games but Harry is just so vulnerable and it’s so adorable he can’t help it. Plus Louis’ always has been a sadistic little shit anyways.

 

“Well—er—feel free to sit down,” Amina says uncomfortably, looking between Louis’ content smile and Harry’s utter embarrassment in obvious confusion. She has no idea exactly what’s going on, but she knows there’s _something._

 

So Harry is takes a seat next to Louis with this look on his face that clearly says he wishes he was a hundred different places. He makes a point to sit at least three feet away from Louis—a distance Louis quickly closes with a few well-placed movements and ‘accidental’ leg twitches. In a matter of five minutes, they’re sitting knee-to-knee and _wow_ , Louis is having too much fun with this whole situation.

 

Harry’s ears are stuck at this permanent shade of red as he sits through Amina’s explanation of medical interventions, her favorite class. He pretends to be fixed on Amina and her topic, but Louis doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart to the corners nervously.

 

Louis reaches for the teapot, pretending to be totally immersed in the conversation. His arm brushes against Harry’s in the process (not by chance, by the way) and Louis watches as Harry freezes and his breath catches. Louis drops his hand and gives Harry this utterly embarrassed look.

 

“Excuse my reach,” he says shyly. “I’m sorry, love.”

 

Harry opens his mouth to respond when the buzzer beeps from the back. His eyes fly open and he races out of the seat, shouting something about the pastries being finished.

 

Louis sighs as his curls disappear around the corner. He really was enjoying himself.

 

“All right,” Amina says lowly, leaning in and giving him a serious look. “What in the world was that?”

 

“What was what?” Louis asks sweetly, blinking his eyes and acting totally oblivious.

 

“You were practically _simpering,_ Louis,” Amina says pointedly. “I’ve never seen you simper. Louis Tomlinson, do you have a crush on Harry?”

 

 

The question is so blunt and forward it takes Louis by surprised. He laughs it off.

 

“No, Amina—‘course not,” he says offhandedly. “Yeah, he’s cute—but I don’t know him at all.”

 

Amina sits back and crosses her arms over her chest, this look in her eyes that makes the alarm bells ring in Louis’ head.

 

“You’ll like him,” she says after a while. “Harry was just being a skittish teenager. He’s really quite endearing.”

 

“Thanks,” Louis answers dryly, taking a sip out of his cup. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

Amina just smiles in that knowing way and Louis can’t help but be a bit unsettled.

 

*

 

Over the next few weeks, it seems as if fate throws Harry at Louis everywhere he turns.

 

It’s a bit distracting—the boy has stuck on Louis and grown like a weed, choking out all of his doubts about the lanky-limbed pastry chef with the jade eyes and the quirky smile. Louis tries to ignore him, he really does, but it’s hard when he’s literally everywhere.

 

Like when Louis ran into him at the market late last night—and he was in his pajamas and glasses. Louis was just picking up some bacon for the next day’s breakfast and yeah, he’d worn his glasses because Louis always wears them at night and he didn’t really expect to see anyone he knew at the deserted market.

 

But _of course_ as Louis is browsing the meat section, he feels a pair of curious eyes on his back _and_ _of course,_ he turns around to see Harry peeping at him from behind the dairy isle. As soon as their eyes meet, Harry ducks behind the milk and Louis can’t help but chuckle because Harry’s so shy around him that it’s almost endearing.

 

There was also that instance at the pharmacy—Louis needed more shaving cream—and he’d dropped by to pick some up. He wasn’t really paying attention because he was texting Zayn, and— _of all people_ he _could run into whilst texting_ —he ran into Harry. Louis knocked all the stuff out of his arms and Harry was left frantically chasing it down the road, his face glowing magenta. Louis tried to help him, but Harry shook his head violently and waved him on.

 

So yeah. Louis runs into Harry everywhere and Harry runs into Louis everywhere and it’s really just a huge mess.

 

It’s so strange—two weeks ago, Louis didn’t know him at all, and now Louis would be hard-pressed to have a thought that didn’t concern him (or his stupidly adorable grin and his annoyingly cute dimples, but this is information Louis chooses not to disclose.)

 

And okay, maybe Louis is kind of enjoying the whole thing.

 

Even Zayn’s been noticing how much happier Louis has became throughout these last two weeks, and of course he’s asking _what happened, Louis?_ and _you can tell me, we’re best mates!_ Louis really does want to tell him, but it’s hard to explain what he doesn’t even understand.

 

The only person who seems to get the whole Louis-Harry dynamic is Amina—she’s always watching the two of them with this little knowing smile on her face that drives Louis mad. It’s like she can see something that no one else can, and she refuses to tell him what it is, despite his constant nagging. She’ll just give him this little half-shrug that makes Louis want to tear out his hair.

 

He doesn’t understand where he stands with Harry, but he’s sure he doesn’t want to know Harry through just a journal anymore. Louis doesn’t want him to be just another face—and it’s so frustrating to him because he doesn’t know _where_ to start.

 

Louis just wishes he could learn Harry through his words and facial gestures and his bright laugh. He wishes he could learn Harry through soft touches and gentle kisses and tangled limbs at three in the morning--

 

_Louis thinks he’s going mad._

 

*

 

Louis’ birthday dawns bright and early on Christmas Eve.

 

He wakes up as usual, feeling painfully average and rather sleepy. Louis expected to greet the day with parades and shooting fireworks and loud music—a _fter all, he is twenty-two—_ but the only thing he wakes up to is a bird chirping at his window that annoys him.

 

Louis rolls out of bed and sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair.

 

He wraps the duvet around his shoulders and begins digging though his dressers for something to wear. Louis doesn’t want to look average today— _no, he’s twenty-two, and average is not allowed—_ so he puts an actual effort into his wardrobe. Plus Zayn promised him a nice dinner tonight, and he has to look somewhat decent if he doesn’t want Zayn yelling at him because of his laziness.

 

Zayn couldn’t yell at Louis even if he wanted to anyways because _Louis is twenty-two, and that’s not allowed._

He hums happily as he pulls on a periwinkle button-up shirt that deepens into a navy blue at the waist. The colors always did suit his eyes; Zayn told him that he looked handsome in it, and yeah, maybe Louis does feel kind of good. He has a pair of grey skinny jeans that set it off well, and of course Louis has to wear his white vans with doodles on them—they’re practically a routine now.

 

 

Louis spends a lot of time on his hair. He washes it and blow dries it carefully with a rounded brush, trying to bring out the glossy shine Zayn knows how to do. It falls to the nape of his neck in the back, and the front is brushed over to the side. Louis thinks he looks a lot like Jack from _Titanic._

Louis feels good and he looks clean and it’s just a great day to be twenty-two and alive.

 

He wanders around the flat and reads his favorite passages from the journal and nibbles on an orange. Louis waits for Zayn to wake up—but he got home late last night from Perrie’s, and Louis assumes he’s tired from his e _xertions._ Louis wishes he was up though—he’s twenty-two after all, and days like this don’t come along very often.

 

So Louis wastes time until it’s nine-fifteen—the usual time he heads out for the 17Black café. He leaves a note on the table for Zayn and rushes out of the door, excited for breakfast.

 

See, Amina always makes him this handmade breakfast free of charge for his birthday. And it’s not your average breakfast— _no, it’s the over-the-top sort that makes Louis’ mouth water just thinking about it._ He looks forward to his birthdays solely for this reason.

 

So when Louis bursts into the café and sees no sign of his fabulous breakfast, you can imagine how disappointed he is. Louis feels like he’s been let down in all the worst ways.

 

Instead, there’s a little card stand by his usual table that reads “ _Happy twenty-second, Louis—I don’t know about you, but I hope you’re feeling twenty-two!_ in loopy writing that resembles nothing of Amina’s. Louis picks it up because he knows who wrote this—

 

“Happy birthday, Louis.”

 

He spins around to see Harry holding a silver platter with metal lids over it. He’s smiling shyly, those dimples cratering his cheeks like comets had landed there. Harry’s eyes are wide and bright and eager and Louis feels a little breathless.

 

“Oh—Harry—“ Louis stammers, straightening his shirt. “Thanks.”

 

Harry nods towards the table and Louis takes a seat, unsure of what’s going on. Somewhere deep inside his chest he knows Amina has something to do with this—Louis talked to her last night about this breakfast and she told him that she was getting it ready. Louis assumed it would be _her_ greeting him, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t equally as pleased to see Harry.

 

“Where’s Amina?” Louis asks curiously as Harry sets down the tray in front of him. Harry’s hands are shaking.

 

“She called in sick last minute,” Harry shrugs, trying to act like he isn’t nervous—but Louis can hear the tremor in his voice. “Said she had the flu.”

 

And now Louis knows this is blatant lie—Amina never gets sick, and she sounded perfectly fine fourteen hours ago. No, she did this to set Louis and Harry up— _she’d planned this all along!_

Louis isn’t stupid—he knows he can’t let an opportunity like this pass. He’s twenty-two, and there’s this nice breakfast in front of him and there’s a cute boy who has nothing better to do than spend his morning with Louis.

 

So Louis takes the chance and runs with it.

“Well then I guess it’s just you and me,” Louis says cheerfully, nodding towards the spot opposite him. “After all, I can’t eat all this food myself.”

 

Harry gives him this incredulous look that barely masks his happiness. He looks like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing.

 

“You—you want me to eat with you?” he asks shyly, stepping back and meeting Louis’ gaze for the first time. His icy chartreuse irises are ringed with a deep moss green.

 

It’s these little details that make Louis’ breath catch in his chest. It’s the small things about Harry that make him the most extraordinary person Louis is sure he’s ever met.

 

“I would honestly like it very much,” Louis smiles fondly. “S’aright, Harry—you don’t have to be so nervous. I not like, famous, or summant.”

 

Louis places a hand on Harry’s shaky one gently and gives it a single squeeze. The gesture is simple and friendly—nothing more, and nothing less.

 

Harry glances at their hands and his face loosens a little bit. He swallows the lump in his throat and nods.

 

There are a few minutes of awkward silence neither of them know how to fill. The empty air hangs with promises of words unspoken—silent admissions to the things they’ve been feeling in the last few weeks. God, there’s so much Louis wants to say to this lovely boy in front of him, so many things he wants to tell him, and so many promises he wants to create with whispered words, but Louis just doesn’t know where to start.

 

It’s hard for him not to feel guilty though—before Louis can walk down those paths, he has to tell Harry the secret that brought them together. The thought of the little brown book lying underneath the table is enough to make his throat tight with remorse—he can’t act like he doesn’t know Harry when he’s violated his personal thoughts in such a way.

 

So—instead of opening up the conversation with a smile or something, Louis opens it in the worst possible way.

 

 

“Harry—god, I’m so sorry,” Louis says suddenly, dropping his fork. It clatters onto the plate with a merry tinkle. “I need to tell you something.”

 

Harry keeps his gaze on the plates of steaming eggs and bacon that lay in front of them. He nods, his eyelashes dusting his pale cheeks in the early morning light.

 

“I found a journal a few weeks ago—in fact, it was your journal—outside of a club,” he says hurriedly. “I wasn’t even supposed to see it, but I was drunk and I tripped on it and hurt my nose and I called my best friend to pick me up. He had to gather all of my fallen things and the book somehow ended up into my messenger bag.”

 

Harry’s eyes shoot open and he meets Louis’ anxious gaze with a horrified look on his face.

 

“I read it,” he says quietly. “I read it, and I’m sorry Harry—I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I did and I really feel bad for it.”

 

Louis pulls it out of his bag and sets it in front of Harry gently. Harry’s eyes are fixed on the little brown book as if he’s willing it to disappear—or maybe even himself.

 

“You… you read it all?” he chokes out. Louis swears he sees tears glimmering in his eyes and it feels like a knife to the stomach because _no, this isn’t how he wanted this to happen—_

“God, I’m so sorry,” Louis mutters, putting his face into his hands. “Harry, I’m honestly such a shit person—you have to know that about me.”

 

Harry stares blankly at his fork. The silence is worse than his choked-out words.

 

And now Louis knows how morbidly embarrassed Harry must feel. He poured out his heart into that journal—Harry didn’t censor himself at all because he intended it only for his eyes. The mere fact that the person he wrote about most—the person that held his affection—was the one who found the journal and read it makes it that much more embarrassing and Louis feels _really_ bad.

 

He knows this is what’s on Harry’s mind—he can see it in his face. And Louis can’t let him get down over his own mistake.  

 

“Harry—what you wrote about me was really kind,” Louis continues softly. “It made me realize that there are people out there—people who I don’t even know—that care about me. And even though I know I shouldn’t have read the journal, your words meant a lot to me.”

 

Harry’s large, doe-like eyes widen in disbelief. It’s clear that whatever he was expecting wasn’t this.

 

“Louis,” Harry says weakly, putting his face in his hands. “I don’t want that thing to be your first impression of me—I sound so weird—“

 

Louis cuts him off by leaning forward and tilting his chin up so that his green eyes meet Louis’.

 

“Let me get to know you, then,” Louis say quietly. “Let’s start over, Harry. None of this ever happened, yeah?”

 

Harry nods shyly, his eyes downcast and his eyelashes fawning across his pale cheeks. He’s still horribly embarrassed.

 

“All right then. I’m Louis William Tomlinson, aged twenty-two,” he says proudly. “I had to say that—it’s the first day I’ll be able to use it.”

 

And Harry lets out this lovely laugh unexpectedly—he blushes and covers his mouth almost instantly. It makes Louis a bit sad because Harry has such a wonderful personality, and he keeps letting his insecurities handicap his extraordinary qualities.

 

“Harry Edward Styles, aged nineteen,” Harry says timidly. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry and these eggs are getting cold.”

 

Louis definitely was expecting a Taylor Swift line, but Harry caught him. He chuckles and picks up his fork, digging into the fluffy golden eggs presumably made by Harry himself.

 

The conversation that follows is much lighter and much less forced. It feels natural and _right—_ Louis likes how the topics flow fluidly from one to another. And although he notices Harry’s eyes linger on his longer than average, he thinks that they’re taking a step in the right direction.

 

Over breakfast, he learns that Harry is an avid bird lover, and a Scrabble fanatic. He loves his sister Gemma more than anyone else in the world—which Louis already knew because of the journal, but he doesn’t bring this up—and his best friend Niall means everything to him. Louis can see a lot of parallels between the Niall-Harry dynamic in his own friendship with Zayn.

 

So Louis tells him about his passion for football and shitty soap operas. He explains to Harry his fascination with Yorkshire tea and oversized jumpers and Harry just laughs and watches him with these adoring eyes that make Louis’ stomach jump. He feels so overwhelmingly happy with Harry on the other side of him, smiling so widely Louis can see his dimples, laughing so loudly he has to cover his mouth, and generally being bright and warm and lovely.

 

Yes, as they’re exchanging phone numbers after breakfast, Louis thinks he’s honestly fighting a losing battle. There’s something about Harry that’s making him feel like a giddy teenager all over again—a feeling that’s swallowing him whole and corroding the bad bits of Louis.

 

And he doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

 

*

 

The next morning, Louis wakes up to snow dusting his window pane.

 

He’s all groggy eyes and bleary thoughts, but he doesn’t fail to recognize the blinding white light streaming into his bedroom. Louis sits up and yawns, running a hand through his hair and then smiles because w _ow, it’s a Christmas miracle._

It hardly ever snows in London—and when it does, it’s soft, insubstantial stuff. But no, today it’s thick and white and _heavy_ and Louis can’t help but get a little bit excited. The child in him is rekindled.

 

He runs to the window and cracks it open, letting the soft winter breeze to stroke his cheeks. It feels icy and refreshing—Louis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the snow-laced air. He swears that winter has a distinct taste.

 

And then he sees a decently-large lump of snow right close to the window edge and a stupid idea pops into his head and he’s grabbing two handfuls of the fluffy stuff. It numbs his hands right away and begins melting, so Louis has to be quick about it—

 

He darts out of his room and into Zayn’s. Louis sees the bundle of blankets that’s presumably a sleeping Zayn, and a wide smirk tugs at his lips _because hell yes, this is the perfect opportunity._

Louis pulls back the first layer of blankets and dumps the whole load of snow directly on Zayn’s face.

 

It’s almost too funny the way Zayn’s eyes fly open and he yelps in surprise. His arms flail wildly—nearly hitting Louis—and he kicks off the duvet.

 

“What the _fuck—?“_ Zayn yells, still half-asleep. He wipes the dripping mess off his face and peers up at Louis’ smirking face. His eyes narrow into slits.

 

“You little shit—!“ he says angrily, tossing off the duvet. He lunges for Louis, who laughs and takes off running—but Zayn’s quicker than he is, and he’s got Louis by the waist. They both crash to the ground with a resounding _boom!_

And now Louis is laughing as Zayn glares at him and _fuck,_ Zayn can’t be mad if Louis is laughing so he starts laughing too and they’re both just giddy messes on the dingy carpet.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Louis giggles, poking his nose. “You look chilly.”

 

“I’d say I hate you,” Zayn grumbles, trying to fight the smile pulling at his lips, “but it’s Christmas and I know you got me some good presents, so I’ll resist the urge.”

 

Louis’ face lights up because _yes_ he does have some good presents for Zayn. He’d bought them very last-minute, and he doesn’t have much money (which Zayn understands) so it isn’t anything good, but Louis knows how to buy a meaningful gift.

 

He runs off to his room and pulls out three packages.

 

Louis— _of course_ —makes Zayn shake the gifts and guess what’s in each of the boxes. He rolls his eyes at Louis because _wow, he’s so lame sometimes_ but he does it and he’s enjoying himself too much.

 

Zayn ends up getting a horribly ugly Christmas sweater with reindeers and snowmen on it. He stares at it for about five minutes, then laughs and pulls it on with a broad grin. Zayn isn’t surprised by now—Louis gets him an ugly sweater every year, and vice versa. It’s practically a tradition.

 

Louis also gets him a new wallet and a pack of Ramen noodles. Zayn hugs him and thanks him like Louis bought him a new car—and Louis just really loves his best friend. Sure, he doesn’t have much money, but Zayn will love anything Louis wraps with his own hands and gives to him.

 

Zayn gets Louis a new pair of vans and a new jumper—because he always complains Louis steals his—and of course, an ugly sweater. Louis squeals in delight and pulls it over his head with a broad grin and asks for Zayn’s opinion on it.

 

It’s utterly atrocious and at least three sizes too big, but Zayn tells him he looks stunning and Louis pretends to blush and it’s just a _really great morning._

 

Later in the afternoon—after Louis is chuck full of Christmas breakfast—Zayn tells him that he’s going to Perrie’s for dinner and celebrations. Louis just shrugs and tells him to go have fun, even though that means he’ll be spending the rest of Christmas alone.

 

Zayn sighs and leaves with a little wave and Louis is just lying on the sofa by himself in the empty flat. It seems much less cheery when he’s alone—but hey, there’s still snow and it’s still Christmas and Louis refuses to let himself get down. After all, this is his first twenty-four hours of being twenty-two, and Louis doesn’t intend on wasting it.

 

It seems like fate doesn’t want him to waste it anyways—because the call Louis gets at three that afternoon twists the whole structure of his day.

 

Of course, Harry would be kind enough to call him and ask him if he had any plans for Christmas, and if not—then would Louis mind spending it with him and Niall? Louis feels seasick as he tells Harry _no, he doesn’t have any plans_ and _yes, he would love to spend it with him and Niall._

But not the bad kind of seasick, no, Louis feels the kind of seasick that makes him faint and woozy and slap happy at the same time. He wants to giggle—and Louis Tomlinson does _not giggle._

Louis thinks Harry Styles is on a whole new level of charm.

 

So yeah, Louis agrees to come around for dinner and he’s smiling and happy and just so _content_ with everything in his life. He’s been living lately—not just existing, not just going through the actions, but really and truly enjoying his life. And all these feelings are sprouting from a dimpled kid with curls and eyes too pretty for his own good and Louis really doesn’t know how to react.

 

By six o’clock, Louis pulls up to the address Harry had texted him hours earlier and smiles up at the cute London flat. It’ very _Harry-like;_ there are fake flowers in the windowsill, which is utterly stupid considering that it’s winter, but Harry probably thought it would be nice. Louis laughs to himself and gets out of the car.

 

Niall and Harry are waiting for him at the door and Louis is kind of excited because he’s never met Niall, but he’s exactly as bright and happy as Harry described him. He’s got a laugh that’s so infectious Louis thinks he needs a vaccine. And Harry--Harry just looks so warm and cuddly in his oversized jumper and crooked Santa hat that Louis wants to scream.

 

“Your sweater, Lou,” Harry laughs brightly when he walks in. “I like it.”

 

And Louis feels like he’s been punched in the gut because since _when did Harry decide to call him Lou?_ On anyone else’s lips, Louis might’ve shuddered and made some quippy remark, but Harry’s got him feeling sappy and _shit he kind of likes it._

“Zayn and I get each other matching ugly sweaters for Christmas,” Louis shrugs. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Shame it’s not socially acceptable to wear them year round because I absolutely love mine.”

Niall laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard and claps Louis on the back.

 

“I agree, mate!” Niall’s voice carries a slight Irish lilt. Louis also gets the vague idea he’s drank too much egg nog. “I think you look bloody handsome! What about you, Harry?”

 

And Harry blushes right to the tips of his Santa hat as he nods a little too enthusiastically.

 

The three of them find out pretty quickly that they get on _very_ well. Niall laughs at everything Louis says, Louis makes quips about Niall’s blatant Irish pride, and Harry just grins stupidly, taking it all in. They end up having a food fight with the easy-prep mash potatoes (which Louis starts) and it scales into an all-out war until there’s Christmas dinner dripping from every possible place except the three gleaming place settings at the table. It’s a huge mess—and Louis kind of feels bad because the flat was immaculate before he arrived—but he ends up paying for pizza to make up for it.

 

Right after their dinner, Niall crashes on the sofa and goes right to sleep. His baby cheeks look pale underneath the glow of the television and the thin stream of light filtering in from the window.

 

“Does he always sleep like that?” Louis asks in a hushed tone as they take seats in the living room. Harry giggles under his breath and nods vigorously—so vigorously, in fact, that he upsets the Santa hat sitting askew his curls. He picks it up and plops it back on his head with a quirky grin and it occurs to Louis that Harry’s a bit drunk too.

 

“We should watch a film,” Harry says promptly, digging through his cabinet of films. “Me and mum always watch _It’s a Wonderful Life_ at Christmas and since she’s not here, you and I should.”

 

Louis agrees and Harry pops the cassette into the video player.

 

And then Harry is stumbling towards Louis and he trips and falls right on top of his chest and giggles. The impact knocks the air out of Louis’ lungs just as much as surprise does—but then again, Harry’s just a tad drunk and he’s lost his inhibitions. Harry will probably be utterly embarrassed when he looks back on this tomorrow, but for now he’s blissfully unaware.

 

“You’re warm and you smell good,” Harry murmurs, burying his face into Louis’ chest. Louis brings a hand up to Harry’s forehead and pushes back his curls with a soft grin.

 

“You can stay up here then,” Louis says, “but you have to get your knee out of my crotch.”

 

Harry giggles again and repositions himself so his head is right above Louis’ heart and his long legs drape over the edge of the sofa. His arms are wrapped around Louis’ waist like he’s giving him a half-hearted hug, and even though the positioning is awkward, Louis feels right at home. He begins to play with Harry’s hair again as the film begins.

 

So yeah, that’s how Louis spends his Christmas—with a boy who’s got his feeling bouncing everywhere, drunk and giggling on his chest and his best mate passed out next to them. Harry falls asleep mid-film, and begins to drool a bit on Louis’ sweater.

 

And yeah—Louis wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

*

 

Louis doesn’t remember falling asleep at Harry’s, but he does and he’s utterly confused when he wakes up.

 

He blinks awake and rubs his groggy eyes with the palms of his hands. Louis’ mind feels fuzzy and disoriented—he wonders how much he drank last night.

 

“Morning Lou,” Harry’s voice pipes from the kitchen. “Sleep well?”

 

Louis yawns and shuffles to the kitchen so he can better greet Harry—and the sight he’s met with nearly takes his breath away.

 

Harry’s in just his boxers, the sunlight streaming onto his ivory skin. Louis has never seen Harry shirtless—therefore he’s never seen the multitude of tattoos that splatter across his chest. Sure, Louis had seen the ones on his arms, but _no, not this._

He’s _fit_ too—the planes of his chest are linear and smooth, like detailed architecture. It’s not only apparent that he works out, but that he’s confident in his own body. Louis would be too if he looked like that.

 

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” Louis says sheepishly, trying not to stare too much. “But yeah, I did. After you stopped drooling on me.”

 

Harry laughs and blushes again, but he’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t read into Louis’ quippy remarks anymore because he knows Louis means it in goodhearted fun.

 

“You make a nice pillow,” Harry admits. “Nice and warm.”

 

“You know I’m going to get so much shit from Zayn about this,” Louis groans, running a hand down his face. “He’s definitely going to think we— _er—“_

“ _Oh,”_ Harry’s face registers his understanding.  “Yes, it does look a bit strange, doesn’t it?”

 

“If he only he knew we spent the night watching black and white films,” Louis sighs. “We were hardly exciting.”

 

“But his version sounds much more juicy,” Harry laughs. “And who wants to hear about a half-drunken film night when there’s an exciting alternative?”

 

Harry spoons some eggs and bacon onto a plate and hands it to Louis. He’s also made gravy for the whole thing—and Louis is absolutely shocked because his mum used to do that all the time and Louis didn’t honestly think anyone else did.

 

“I’m going to have to stop getting used to you making me these breakfasts,” Louis says sheepishly, looking at the golden eggs lathered in gravy. “I might begin to pine without them.”

 

Harry laughs and takes the seat opposite Louis’ with his identical plate of food. His icy chartreuse eyes catch the light of the kitchen window and illuminate his whole face.

 

“I like cooking for you, Lou,” Harry admits, taking the first bite of his eggs. “Niall doesn’t get so lucky… He woke up before us and left out to go get breakfast at the diner.”

 

“I like when you call me Lou,” Louis says quietly. “’S’ cute.”

 

“You do?” Harry looks overly pleased. “Well good. I like it too.”

 

They fall into conversation about mindless things and Louis is really enjoying himself until his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID and sees it’s from Zayn and he gives Harry a look.

 

“Should I take it?” he asks, his finger hovering the answer button. Harry nods.

 

“Hello?” Louis answers nervously, his eyes glued on Harry.

 

“You’re not home,” Zayn says pointedly, skipping any small talk and getting straight to the matter at hand. “Which leads me to believe you’re at Harry’s.”

 

“You are correct,” Louis answers lightly. “Does it matter?”

 

“No, no not at all,” Zayn says and Louis can practically see the smirk on his face. “Just wondering. Have your fun, mate.”

 

“I hate you,” Louis sighs, shaking his head. “Stop sounding so goddamn gleeful about this whole thing.”

 

“Well I can’t help myself!” Zayn says, delighted. “Louis has found himself a boyfriend—“

 

And this is where Louis hangs up the call. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head in mild annoyance.

 

“Well, we knew it was coming,” Harry offers up. He has this crooked, silly grin on his face.

 

“He’s an idiot, I swear,” Louis snorts, but he can’t hide the note of fondness in his voice.

 

So Harry and him finish the meal, and Louis is hugging him goodbye by time Niall gets back. Louis thanks Harry for a great Christmas and Harry assures him it was his pleasure—which Louis doesn’t question because he looks genuinely happy when he says it.

 

And yeah, when he gets home Zayn’s waiting for him and he’s grinning in this knowing way and Louis tries not to smile, he really does, but it’s hard when he feels so goddamn _happy._ He sits down on the sofa and waits for Zayn to say the first thing because Louis can see he’s practically bursting with delight about the whole situation.

 

“You’re absolutely and totally whipped,” Zayn says triumphantly. “God, Louis— _you’ve practically got stars in your eyes!”_

“I do not,” Louis waves it away with a snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“And you’re in love!” Zayn sings gleefully. “You’ve got a little crush on Harry, mate. And if you try to deny it, you’re not only bullshitting me, but you’re bullshitting yourself!”

 

Louis tries hard to come up with some sort of response—he really does—but the words catch on his lips and he’s left stammering. It doesn’t help his case.

 

So yeah, he kind of gives up and admits to the whole thing with his silence and Zayn’s a gloating mess and Louis—well Louis isn’t as bothered as he thought he would be.

 

*

 

On New Years Day, Louis Tomlinson finally kisses Harry Styles.

 

He doesn’t really plan it—the kiss just kind of _happened._ They were at some massive party with Zayn and Perrie and Niall and Liam and everyone had been drinking, so there really weren’t many inhibitions. Everyone was the type of drunk where you just love everybody and you want to be physically close to them and unfortunately (or fortunately depending on how you look at it) Louis and Harry were at the center of it all.

 

So yeah, the clock strikes midnight and there are cheers and fireworks and those annoying soundmakers and everyone is kissing each other. Harry just happens to be the closest to Louis and he grabs him—without even considering who he is—and kisses him full-on.

 

It’s supposed to be short and chaste—the type that ends after a few seconds

 

Except they don’t break apart after a few seconds—no, Harry just pulls Louis closer and deepens the kiss and really, who is Louis to pull away? Harry tastes like champagne and vanilla and promises and Louis is drunk on the taste.

 

One long kiss turns into many more that night. Harry and Louis end up sneaking out of the party and sprawling themselves underneath the light sky, hands running feverishly down each other’s bodies hungrily. They’re both starving for this sort of pleasure—Louis can feel Harry’s desire plainly—and they’re not entirely sober and really, who is there to stop them?

 

Louis feels Harry on every part of him—he feels his touch and his heartbeat and his breathless gasps for air ghosting his skin. Louis can taste Harry too—he tastes the champagne from his mouth and the sweet flavor of his skin. He hears his name rolling off Harry’s lips, succulently slow and deliciously sweet.

 

Every part of Louis feels like it’s on fire. He can hardly thing straight—there’s alcohol pulsing through his bloodstream intermingled with flaming pleasure, and it’s short-circuiting his mind. All he can focus on is the way Harry’s mouth works against his desperately, the little noises of pleasure that escape his lips, the feeling of Harry’s hands pulling him closer, _closer._ He’s frantically grasping at every part of Harry’s milky skin, at his hair, at his clothes, trying to quench that thirst he’s had for this moment—Louis is almost feral in his pulsing desire, and he can’t help it.

 

“Lou,” Harry breathes, pulling apart from him for a second. Louis can hardly take the way his name rolls off his lips, sounding so fucking _worn out and sexy._ His eyes—dark green and lust-blown—hold the reflection of the stars above and Louis can’t take it— _Harry looks sinfully beautiful—_

And then they’re kissing again and they can’t stop, they’re so caught up in the moment and the feeling and it’s overwhelming. Harry is whimpering under Louis’ weight and those little noises are driving Louis up the wall—he wants to take Harry right here and right now, oh _god--_

 

They’re lost to the world for nearly half an hour.

 

After the two of them have worn each other out, they lay curled together underneath the midnight sky. The top of Harry’s head rests underneath Louis’ chin, and he has his arm draped over Harry’s hips, holding him close. They don’t speak at all—there really isn’t much to say at this point. Their actions have done it for them.

 

And Louis tries to regret all he’s done, but he can’t bring himself to—not when the taste of Harry is so fresh on his mouth. He knows he’s treading into dangerous waters, he knows the boy pressed against his chest is addictive, and he knows he’s going to get hooked this feeling, but Louis is drunk and he’s satisfied and all he feels is the rise and fall of Harry’s chest against his.

 

Louis’ fingers run through Harry’s hair gently as they lay there. It’s slow, mechanical work, but Harry lets out these little sighs of contentment that make Louis smile, so he keeps doing it until Harry’s dozing on his chest.

 

In sleep, Harry looks so much more youthful and sweet. The moon’s rays washing against his pale cheeks add to his overall ethereal beauty, and Louis can’t help but watch him breathe. Harry’s fascinating—his plump lips (which Louis has become newly acquainted with) hang open softly, and his long eyelashes contrast the pale ivory of his skin. His curls—which are messy from Louis running his hands through them—lay in a tousled mess across his forehead, but again, Louis thinks he’s beautiful.

 

_He always has._

 

It’s New Years, and Louis is lying underneath the moonlight, wondering what the next few weeks will bring in terms of Harry and himself. He can’t ignore the feelings stirring in his chest, drunk or not, and he can’t pretend like he doesn’t have some level of fondness for Harry. Still, the word ‘relationship’ carries a weight that Louis doesn’t think he can handle just yet—especially with someone as pure and loveable as Harry.

 

He knows there will come a time when Harry will find his faults, dig deep enough to see the flaws, and reveal his shortcomings. He knows there are some things within himself that he doesn’t want to share with another person—particularly his feelings, especially when they’re so new and raw.

 

Louis is the kind of person who doesn’t love quickly or easily, but once he does, he commits himself to that person. He gives so much of himself to them that he begins to lose the pieces that make up Louis until he’s nothing but a shadow, depending on the light of the person who commands his affections.

 

And if Harry ever left him—if Harry ever discovered the roots of Louis’ misfortunes—then Louis knows he would be destroyed. It’s that daunting thought that makes the word ‘relationship’ turn bitter on his tongue.

 

( _If only Louis knew that Harry had taken the journal the night he got it back and made some revisions. If only he knew that ‘Louis Tomlinson’ now joined the ranks with Gemma, Niall and his mum underneath the list of people that have changed him. If only Louis knew, because then he would really understand how much Harry loves him.)_

 

Louis knows there will be many more weeks ahead of them to figure this out. He knows there will be time for him to sort out his feelings and for Harry to develop his, and there will be a time for more kisses and more feverish touches. There will be time for sweet things too—breakfasts in bed and soft caresses under the sheets and whispered words of promise.

 

Harry is no longer a nameless face behind a journal—he isn’t the lanky-limbed kid with eyes too big and smile too bright. He isn’t the boy with the curls and the dimples and the dorky laugh—no, he’s much _much_ more to Louis, and he couldn’t be any happier than he is right now.

 

_The new year will hold so much for them, and Louis can hardly wait to see what it brings._


End file.
